


Don't Blink

by leigh_adams



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_canon_fest, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh_adams/pseuds/leigh_adams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Trust me friend, a hundred years goes faster than you think.  So don’t blink.</i>  Bill reflects on his life-- and the remarkable woman he shared it with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Blink

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 round of HP Canon Fest. The title of this story comes from the song [Don’t Blink](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4f0p5KqdU9U) by Kenny Chesney. I think it’s quite appropriate. I hope you all enjoy! Oh, and if you hover your cursor over the French words, you’ll see the English translation.

**  
_October 15, 2078_   
**

A cool breeze ruffled the tree limbs, sending a whirl of golden leaves falling down to the ground. It was a lovely autumn’s day in Ottery St. Catchpole with just the barest hint of the oncoming weather hanging in the air. The old wizarding cemetery was completely deserted.

At least, it nearly was.

In a silver wheelchair sat a small, stooped figure. His shoulders were hunched with age, and his once-flaming red hair was now silver. Lines crossed his face; laugh lines that had given way to age lines as the years had passed. Hands, once so strong and sure, were now gnarled with arthritis and wear.

But his blue eyes were as keen and bright as they had ever been.

A flannel tartan was draped across his lap, lovingly tucked over his thin legs by the great-granddaughter who’d accompanied him to the graveyard-- Anaïs. She had left him where he was with a kiss on the cheek and the assurance that she would be nearby.

 _”Just in case you need me.”_

There were several headstones nearby designating the final resting places of his family. Fred was there, buried beneath the willow tree-- George had liked that. His parents, too, side-by-side in death as they had been in life. He took solace in the fact that his mother had gotten the grandchildren she’d always longed for; there were over a dozen between the six surviving Weasleys.

The stone at his feet was new. His children had picked it out, narrowing down the different types of marble until they’d shown him their final choice. But he didn’t care; the stone was more for them than it was for him. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they were choosing one for _him_.

A bouquet of dark crimson roses sat beneath one wrinkled hand, the stems bound together by a white satin ribbon. She had always loved roses, had tended the various bushes around their home until she’d been too weak to do so on her own. The blooms in his lap were from one of her prize bushes, lovingly plucked by Isabelle-- their eldest granddaughter and chief caretaker of her Grandmère’s garden.

In the distance, a sparrow sang. The leaves rustled. At the Burrow, the garden gnomes were likely plotting world domination. But none of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was sitting in front of him, carved in stone.

Fleur Isabelle Delacour-Weasley

August 17, 1977 to October 15, 2077

Loving daughter, sister, wife, and mother  
 _Cœur nobyle, esprit immobyle_

Sometimes, it was hard for Bill to realize she was gone. He was over a hundred years old and it was easy to forget that his wife of eighty years was no longer with him. There were mornings when he would wake up, agitation growing when he didn’t see Fleur sleeping beside him.

And then he would remember.

And then the pain would return.

Looking up from the headstone, his mind started to wander. As blue eyes took in the unchanging landscape of his home village, Bill began to think back on days gone by-- for at his age, he could recall the past much more readily than he could the present. There had been a time when he’d been a headstrong, adventurous young man; a time of darkness and war, when his family had still been whole.

And during that time, she’d changed his life forever.

*~*~*~*~*

 **  
_December 2, 1995_   
**

“So Miss Delacour, tell me. Did I manage to convince you that having dinner with me was a good idea?”

The winter moonlight glinted off Fleur’s white-blonde hair as they walked next to the Thames, Bill’s arm around her waist. Merely to keep her warm, of course. It _was_ nearing Christmas, after all, and Fleur was from the south of France. He hadn’t missed the way she shivered when they’d left the restaurant.

A voice in his mind-- one that sounded suspiciously like his mother-- had said, _”She wouldn’t be cold if she’d be sensible and wear a nice jumper,”_ but Bill ignored it. He much preferred the way her silk dress clung to her in _all_ the right places.

“ _Peut-être_ ,” she replied coyly, glancing up at him through her lashes. A faint touch of a smile tugged at her lips. “You ‘ave certainly made a convincing case for yourself, I theenk.”

“Oh?” Stopping, his arm tightened around her waist, and he turned her to face him. His lips tilted up in his most effortless smirk, blue eyes alight with amusement. “Have I now? And what do _you_ think of my case?”

“I theenk zat I will be needing to ‘ear more on eet,” she responded, her gaze flashing. One brow rose as she glanced down at his arm, then back up to his face, and her smile curled into a smirk to match his own. “But I do not theenk you will mind, _non?_ ”

Bill gave a theatrical sigh. “You drive a hard bargain, mademoiselle. I suppose I’ll just have to grit my teeth and bear another evening in your company if you’re to be satisfied.”

“Ees zat so?” Fleur didn’t miss a beat as she pulled away, her long hair whipping around as she wiggled out of his embrace. “I would ‘ate to so inconvenience you, Monsieur Weasley. I am sure zere ees some other women who weel not be as challenging to spend time with. And Roger ‘as been ‘oping to take me to another Queeditch match, you see.”

He laughed and reached out for her again, big hands grasping her slim hips and tugging her back against him. “Oh, I don’t think so, love.”

“ _Et pourquoi pas?_ ” she asked in defiance. One small hand braced against his chest, and Bill promptly reached up to lace his fingers through hers.

“Because,” he said, his smirk growing, “the other women-- the non-challenging ones-- aren’t _nearly_ as beautiful as you.”

Her veela vanity assuaged, Fleur smiled. “Well. When you put it like _zat_...”

“I’d be _happy_ to spend another evening convincing you, Fleur,” he said, ducking his head down to brush his lips against her ear. His voice was a whisper when he breathed, “And if you like, I can provide character references.”

“I do not theenk zat will be necessary,” she murmured, her head turning a fraction to the side. Their lips were but a hairs-breadth apart as she said, “Eef you would kiss me.”

“As the lady commands, so it shall be.” Without further commentary, he closed the gap between them and pressed his lips to hers.

He hadn’t known it at the time, but that had been his last first kiss.

*~*~*~*~*

 **  
_June 3, 1997_   
**

It was quiet in the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey was in her office, reviewing files, and the other inhabitants had been discharged from her care the day before. It left Bill alone, as the hovering caretaker was not quiet ready to send him on his way. Even though he’d grumbled and argued, she’d insisted on one more night’s observation.

Fleur sat in a chair beside his bed, a blonde tendril of hair curled on her cheek as she dozed softly. Since the attack, she hadn’t left the hospital wing; not to eat, not to sleep, _nothing_ had been able to get her to leave his side. Bill had seen the grudging admiration in his mother’s eyes when Fleur had yanked the poultice away from her.

If he’d been in any other shape, he would have smirked. But that probably would have been rewarded by one of his mother’s Stinging Hexes, and he didn’t fancy that again.

He shifted in bed, and Fleur’s eyes flew open. “ _Chéri_ , do you need somezing? Should I get ze Madame?”

Bill shook his head. “‘M fine, Fleur. Go back to sleep.”

His fiancée snorted softly, rolling her eyes at him. _Comme si je pourrait_ ,” she said softly, sitting up in her seat. She reached out and took his hand between hers, small thumb stroking softly over the calloused flesh.

In the dim light, he saw a tear roll down her pale cheek.

“Fleur, please don’t cry,” he murmured, reaching out with his free hand to brush her tear away. “Love, it’s alright.”

“But eet almost was not,” she whispered furiously, turning watery blue eyes up to him. “You could ‘ave been _keeled_ , _chéri_.” She brought his hand up to her face, pressing her lips against him. “I do not know what I would do eef I lost you, Bill. I _can’t_ lose you.”

The desperation in her voice tore at his heart. He wanted nothing more than to draw her into his arms and assure her that everything would be alright, that he would never leave her. But he couldn’t lie to her. Their world was growing darker and more dangerous with each passing day, and there was a fair chance something _would_ happen to him.

 _“Come here, love.”_

 _She shook her head. “You’re ‘urt...”_

 _Rolling his eyes at her stubbornness, he rolled onto his side and reached around her waist, tugging her up onto the bed beside him. Ignoring her protests, he pulled her back against his chest and let his chin rest on top of her head._

 _“Bill, eef you were not ‘urt, I would ‘ex you!”_

 _He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fleur, darling, I’m hurt. I’m not dead.”_

 _She stilled. “Please don’t say zat,” she said, her voice quiet with angst. “Bill, I-”_

 _Bill pressed a finger against her lips. “Love, I can’t promise that something won’t happen to me. I’m not going to lie to you. But you’re strong, you can survive anything.”_

 _Fleur shook her head. “Not without you,” she whispered._

 _He sighed and pressed his lips to her silky hair. “Don’t fret, Fleur. I won’t go anywhere without a fight, I can promise you that. We’re both alive, and right now, that’s all that matters.”_

 __

*~*~*~*~*

 _  
**  
_August 1, 1997_   
**   
_

“So, Mrs. Weasley, how does it feel to be married to the most handsome wizard in Britain?”

He didn’t have to glance down at her to know she had rolled her eyes. “Ze most ‘andsome wizard een Britain ‘as quite ze ego,” she commented lightly as Bill twirled his new wife under his arm, bringing her back to him in time with the music.

“You knew that from the start, love.”

“So I did.” Fleur tipped her face back to look at Bill, a contented smile in place. “ _Et toi?_ ‘Ow does eet feel to no longer be a bachelor?”

“Absolutely perfect.”

The need for words died, and Bill’s hand slid around to the small of her back, drawing her curves flush against his body. Despite all the turmoil they had endured over their year-long courtship-- his family’s protests, Greyback’s attack, and the daily threat of Death Eaters or worse-- it was all worth it. To have Fleur in his arms, to call her his own...

It was more than he’d ever imagined for himself. _She_ was more than he deserved.

“ _Chéri_.” Fleur’s voice drew him out of his reverie, tugging him back to the moment. Bill glanced down to find her peering up at him, blonde brows drawn in concern. “You are far away. What are you theenking about?”

“You,” he answered honestly.

Fleur’s lips curled upwards in a smile. “ _Ah bon?_ ”

“Really.” Ducking his head down, he pressed his lips against hers in a soft, sweet kiss.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips.

“ _Je t’adore aussi_ ,” he murmured, tightening his hold on her. The fierce, proud, _gorgeous_ woman was his.

 _A streak of light shot into the tent, causing the wedding-goers to gasp in surprise. Bill pulled back from his wife, instinctively moving to shield her from whatever had happened upon their reception. It was a Patronus, and a split second later, he recognized who it belonged to._

 _A lynx._

 _  
_Kingsley._   
_

_”The Ministry has fallen. Scrimegeour is dead. They’re coming.”_

He barely heard Fleur whisper, “ _Mon dieu_ ,” beside him before shadowy figures started to appear, shattering glasses and flinging hexes within seconds.

And all hell broke loose.

*~*~*~*~*

 **  
_December 24, 1997_   
**

“Fleur, love, please come inside.”

It was freezing, and his wife was on the beach. Her back was to him, but Bill didn’t need to see her face to see the tension radiating off her. Had she been facing him, he was sure he’d have seen her arms crossed over her chest, her jaw set defiantly, and her blue eyes hard with anger.

“I will be inside een a minute,” she said shortly.

Bill sighed and moved closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her back against him. “You’re going to catch your death out here with no jumper on,” he said against her ear.

“You sound like your muzzer,” Fleur groused. Despite her testy tone, she relaxed against him, pressing back against his warm body.

“She’s a very wise lady,” he replied sagely, pressing a kiss to her neck. “What’s got you so worked up, sweetheart?”

“‘E should not be ‘ere.”

One thumb idly stroked her clothed hip. “I know,” he murmured soothingly. “I know.”

“‘E should be with ‘Arry and ‘Ermione!” she shot back hotly. “Why did ‘e leave zem? What eef somezing ‘appens to zem while ‘e ees not zere? ‘E ees ‘iding ‘ere, and ‘e should not be doing so!”

“Fleur, darling,” Bill started, turning her in his arms. “I’m not much happier about it than you are. But where else is he supposed to go? Back home? Mum would _kill_ him for leaving them.”

“ _I_ am going to keel ‘im!” his wife hissed, jerking away from him. Her blonde hair whipped around in the ocean’s breeze as she tried to escape his embrace, but his long fingers wrapped around her wrist and jerked her back to him.

“Hey,” he said, ignoring the violent flash in her blue eyes, “I know you’re upset, but he’s my _brother_. What would you do if you were in my position, and Gabrielle was in his?”

“She would not abandon ‘er friends to ze wolves because she was a coward!”

“Do not call my brother a coward, Fleur.”

“ _Non?_ Zen what ees ‘e?” She tried to pull away, thrashing against his firm hold on her. “Let me go!”

“ _No_.” Despite her protests, his embrace tightened. One hand moved to cup her cheek, holding her head in place as he caught her gaze. “Not everyone is like you, love. You’re fearless. Nothing scares you, and that’s a quality I both love and hate about you.”

Her lips hardened into a thin line. “And what ees zat supposed to mean?”

“It means that while I admire your courage, I’m scared that one day it could get you killed.” Pausing to draw a shaky breath, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Ron made a mistake, love, and he knows it. Try not to be too hard on him.”

Bill opened his eyes when he felt her cup his cheek, mirroring his own actions. “I will, but I promise nothing.”

“That’s all I ask.” Giving her a small, grateful smile, he leaned down and let his forehead rest against hers. “Happy Christmas, my lovely wife.”

“ _Joyeux Noël, mon mari_.”

*~*~*~*~*

 **  
_May 2, 1998_   
**

It was over.

Voldemort was dead.

They had _won_.

But Fred...

Fred was gone.

The sunlight filtered over the Scottish highlands, casting the castle in its morning rays. It glinted off the lake, and Bill had to raise one hand to shield his eyes. All around him, remnants of the previous night’s battle littered the grounds; bodies were being carried back into the Great Hall, both Order and Death Eater alike.

Some of them were young. _Too_ young. Students who had sneaked back onto the grounds after McGonagall’s mandatory evacuation.

But Bill couldn't think about them. He didn’t know them, and while it might have been selfish of him, he didn’t care.

Because Fred, his brother, was dead.

A choked sound escaped his lips as the overwhelming reality of that sank it. It wasn’t as if Bill didn’t know death, hadn’t felt its keen sting before; he’d been there when Uncle Bilius had died, and he’d lost coworkers over his work in the Egyptian tombs. But _nothing_ could compare to the heart-wrenching ache that filled him. He’d never see Fred laugh again, never watch the twins conspire against Percy.

A light touch on his shoulder startled him, and his mind registered the soft scent of flowers. _Fleur_.

He didn’t want her to see him like this, so beaten and broken. So lost. Bill squeezed his eyes shut, simultaneously warding off tears and shielding himself from her gaze.

“ _Bill_ ,” he heard her whisper, “ _chéri_ , look at me.”

Bill shook his head.

“ _Please_.”

The raw pleading in her voice tore at him, and he was helpless to refuse her. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Her blonde hair was tousled, and blood from a cut on her forehead matted the fine locks. Dirt was smudged on her face, and her blouse was ripped.

But the sight that pained him the most were her tears, pooling in her eyes and cutting a track down her dirty cheeks.

It was like a floodgate opened within him, and a strangled sob fell from his lips. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, and he buried his face in her hair as he gave into the overwhelming urge to cry.

He didn’t know how long they stood there on the edge of the Great Lake. Fleur never faltered, crying herself even as she murmured French nothings in his ear. Fred was gone, but he still had Fleur. There would always be a hole from the loss of his brother, but it wouldn’t always hurt this badly.

As long as he had his wife at his side, he could get through anything.

*~*~*~*~*

 **  
_May 2, 2000_   
**

His hand was going to fall off. He was sure of it. For over eight hours now, he’d been sitting in this chair by her bedside, his hand in hers.

And if she squeezed any harder, she would probably sever his fingers from his hand.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he said. He’d probably said it about seventy times since her water had broken earlier that day, but it was all he could bloody think to say! Truthfully, he wanted to excuse himself and throw up in the loo, but he could only imagine the painful punishment his wife would dole out if he dared leave her side.

“Bill?”

“Yes, love?”

“ _La ferme!_ ”

The Healer glanced up from her position at the foot of the bed and gave them both an encouraging smile. “I can see the head,” she said. “I need one more really big push, Fleur. You can do it.”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Bill coached, just like they’d gone over during the lamaze classes. “Just relax and push. You’re almost done, love.”

“Eet ees easy for you to sit back and say ‘push,’” Fleur retorted hotly, her face flushed with exertion. “But you are never ‘aving sex with me again! _Jamais!_ ”

“One more, Fleur, you’re so close,” the Healer said, and Bill could see the woman’s lips curl at his wife’s pronouncement. If she hadn’t been helping his wife give birth to their firstborn, he’d have had some very nasty thoughts for her.

Fleur grasped his hand even tighter-- he hadn’t thought it was possible to do so, but apparently, he’d been wrong-- and let out a blood-curdling scream. Bill’s gaze was so focused on his wife’s face that he almost missed another sound.

A baby’s cry.

“It’s a girl!” the Healer proclaimed, holding up the slimy, squirmy newborn for her parents to see.

“A girl,” Bill murmured in awe. He leaned in to press his lips to his wife’s clammy forehead. “We have a daughter, love.”

After the Healer had cleaned her up and wrapped her in a pink blanket, she placed the baby in Fleur’s arms. It might have been sappy or cliched, but Bill was sure he’d never felt more like a man than he did at that moment.

“What should we call her?”

Fleur glanced down at the blonde fuzz atop her pink head. “What ees ze date?”

“May 2nd,” he answered, brow knit in confusion. “What-”

“Victoire.” His wife glanced up at him. “Eet ees ze anniversay of ze battle. Let’s call ‘er Victoire.”

“Victoire Weasley.” As Bill sounded the name out, his lips curled upwards in a smile. “I like that. Victoire Apolline Weasley. It’s perfect.”

“ _She_ ees perfect.”

“Can’t argue with that, love,” he said, reaching out to trace his finger over her soft, tiny cheek. “Can’t argue with that.”

*~*~*~*~*

 **  
_March 22, 2002_   
**

Victoire was at his parents’ for the weekend, and not for the first time did Bill feel the familiar sadness welling up again. His daughter was almost two; she couldn’t understand what was going on. She didn’t know why her Maman wouldn’t get out of bed, why her Papa was constantly sad.

She was too young to comprehend what had happened.

It had happened so suddenly. One minute, his wife had been happily chopping away at chard for their dinner, the next she was doubled over in pain. At her scream, he’d dropped his bottle of butterbeer, and the shattering of glass mingled with Fleur’s cry of pain.

When he’d rounded the kitchen counter, he’d nearly frozen in his tracks.

Blood. It stained her dress, running down her leg and onto the tiled floor, pooling at her feet. Her hands were gripping her stomach, and only one thought ran through Bill’s mind.

The baby.

He had grabbed Fleur and Apparated her to the emergency ward at St. Mungo’s, but it had been too late. She had lost their baby-- their son.

And the worst part was there had been nothing either of them could have done to prevent it. It was _just one of those things_ , her Obstetric Healer had said with a sympathetic smile.

Bill _hated_ her. She had no idea what they were dealing with. She _couldn’t_ know their pain.

He knocked lightly on their bedroom door and paused, waiting for Fleur to say something. When a minute had passed without a word, he pushed the door open and slipped into the dark room.

“Fleur?” he said softly, crossing to the small figure curled in a ball on their bed. “Sweetheart, please talk to me.” The bed creaked as he sat down on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to tip her chin up so he could see her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and hollow, her cheeks pale, and her hair was bedraggled and limp around her face.

“What ees zere to say?” she whispered, blinking back tears. “I ‘ave failed. I killed our baby.”

Bill opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was too thick to say anything. Instead, he shook his head and laid down on the bed next to her. His arms moved around her, drawing her against him, and he pressed his cheek to her hair.

“It’s not your fault, Fleur,” he murmured. “You heard the Healer. It was an accident.”

“But zere ‘as to ‘ave been something I could ‘ave done,” she whispered through little sobbing hiccups. “I should ‘ave rested more, eaten somezing different...”

“There was _nothing_ you could have done better, sweetheart,” he assured her as one tear fell down his own cheek. “But we have each other, and we have our Victoire. And she’ll have a brother or sister someday, I promise.”

“ _J’espère_ ,” she whispered. “ _J’espère que ça._ ”

 **  
_July 14, 2004_   
**

He supposed there could never been a simple holiday celebration in their family. Christmases were loud, birthday parties usually resembled circuses, and while Bill had never been one to celebrate Bastille Day, Fleur insisted upon spending _le fête nationale_ with her family outside Toulouse.

Bill had _tried_ to talk her out of it, but she hadn’t listened. His wife was stubborn and headstrong to a fault.

“ _But Bill, I ‘ave not been ‘ome in months, and my parents will be wanting to see Victoire._ ”

Not for the first time did he curse his inability to say no to Fleur. All she had to do was look up at him with her blue eyes, one hand resting on her swollen belly, and he’d been a goner.

But if that hadn’t been enough, he’d had Victoire in his arms, jabbering on about Grandmère and Grandpère and horsies.

That had sealed the deal.

Besides, Fleur hadn’t been due for another three weeks. She’d promised that she’d been feeling fine, and he’d taken her word for it.

Right. Fine. _Of course_ she’d started having labor pains not two hours after arriving in France. It was only natural, right?

But that was alright, really. For now, he was content to watch from the doorway of the hospital room, watching as his wife introduced their four year-old to her new sister.

“ _Fait attention_ , Victoire,” Fleur cautioned, showing the little blonde how to support the baby’s head. Her arms were around the pair of sisters, ready to take over in case Victoire decided she was tired of holding the newest Weasley.

She needn’t have worried, though. The little girl was seemingly infatuated with the tiny baby, from the soft pink blanket she was wrapped in to the tuft of bright red hair on the top of her head.

“What’s her name, Maman?” she asked, tipping her little face back to look at Fleur.

“Dominique,” his wife answered with a fond smile, brushing her hand over Victoire’s long hair. “Dominique Ginevra Weasley.”

“After Aunty Ginny?”

“After Aunt Ginny,” Bill said from the doorway, smiling when his little girl looked up to give him a toothy grin. “Do you think she’ll like that?”

“Well, she _looks_ like Aunty Ginny, so I think so,” Victoire replied, giving an empathic nod.

Bill couldn’t help but laugh as he crossed into the room, perching on the edge of the bed next to his wife and daughters. “How does she look like Aunt Ginny?”

Victoire gave him a look that was quite reminiscent of her mother. “Because, Papa,” she said, “she has Aunt Ginny’s _hair_.”

“So she does.”

The little blonde wiggled around, handing her baby sister off to her mother. As soon as Fleur had taken control of the newborn, Victoire squirmed across the bed and threw her arms around Bill’s neck. “Love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, Princess.” Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he murmured, “I love you, too.”

*~*~*~*~*

 **_February 3, 2006_ **

"You, my love, are amazing."

" _Je sais_."

Bill smirked and settled back against the headboard, pulling his wife into his arms. "And so modest, too," he teased, throwing the phrase she'd once said to him back at her. "Whatever will I do with you?"

"Mmm, I 'ave no idea," Fleur replied with a snort as she moved closer to him, whimpering softly as the movement aggravated her sore body. Bill started to voice his concern, but she waved him off. "Bah, eet ees nothing I 'ave not felt before."

"Yes, you're getting quite good at this childbirth thing." Reaching into the bassinet beside the bed, Bill lovingly picked their newborn child—his _son_ \-- and settled him into his arms. "Isn't Maman brilliant, Louis?"

Louis merely yawned, his tiny mouth widening in an 'O' before he settled back into his slumber.

Fleur laughed softly. One delicate finger reached out, tracing over his soft cheek tenderly. "'E looks like 'is father, I theenk."

"Then he is going to be one deadly handsome wizard."

 _Thunk!_

Bill laughed and leaned over, pressing his lips against Fleur's in a brief kiss. "Come now, sweetheart, it isn't nice to physically abuse the father of your children. What kind of example are you setting?"

"I am showing Louis 'ow not to treat a witch," she replied, sharp teeth nipping at his bottom lip. "'E will need to know eet eef 'e does not wish to be 'exed."

"He might like it. I know I do."

"Well, you 'ave always been a masochist." Pulling back, her blue eyes were sparkling with amusement. "After all, you were ze one who married me."

He smirked. "And I thank Merlin every day that you don't spout wings and talons when I make you angry." Just her little claws, which he didn't mind… especially when she raked them down his back in pleasure.

The blonde rolled her eyes and tugged Louis close to her chest. " _N'écoute pas à ton père. Ta grand-mère fit tomber sur la tête comme un enfant._ "

"Oh come now, love, that's not nice," Bill said, his expression one of faux-hurt. He put his hand to his chest and gave her an earnest look, dramatically fluttering his lashes. "How could you do that to this face?"

"Quite easily," Fleur replied, flashing her white teeth in a grin.

"Heartless harpy," he groused, his amused eyes belying the words. His gaze dropped from her lovely face down to the tiny baby in her arms, and he felt a tugging in his chest. It was the same sensation he felt every time he looked at Victoire and Dominique, his two little princesses; different as night and day, one blonde like her Maman, the other with a head full of Weasley red hair.

Speaking of…

"He doesn't have any hair."

Fleur snorted. "Not all babies 'ave 'air when zey are born. Ze girls were ze exception."

"Yeah," he nodded, "but what color hair do you think he'll have? Care to make a wager?"

"Oh?" she lifted a brow at him in question. "Name ze terms."

"Ten galleons to me if he has blonde hair," he said in challenge, smirking. He could see his son with his Maman's pale locks.

She gave him a long, appraising look, then nodded. " _Bien_. So when 'e 'as red 'air, you give _me_ ze ten Galleons."

"Done." Ducking his head, he gave her a quick little kiss. "And sealed with a kiss."

*~*~*~*~*

 **  
_September 1, 2012_   
**

"Are you sure you 'ave everything you need?" Fleur asked—not for the first time—as the family hovered at the edge of the platform.

Victoire merely nodded. "Yes, Maman, I haven't lost anything between here and home," she said, the touch of pre-teen sass in her tone quickly evaporating at the arch look her mother gave her.

"But if I forgot something, you can owl it to me," she quickly finished, giving Fleur a bright smile.

"Zat ees better," she said. Leaning down, Fleur pressed a kiss to their eldest's forehead. "You will write us as soon as you are settled tonight, _D'accord?_ We will be wanting to 'ear about your Sorting."

" _Bien sûr_ ," Victoire replied in flawless French. "And you'll send macaroons?"

"Eef we 'ear you are doing well in your classes, then per'aps a trip to Pierre Hermé can be arranged…"

Dominique, who so far had been particularly down at the thought of being left behind, brightened up. "Maman, may I have a macaroon, too?"

Bill laughed and ruffled her flaming red hair. "We'll see if we can't convince Tante Gabby to bring some back for the three of you when she comes to visit, alright?"

"Anyway, ze train ees about to leave. Say good-bye to your seeblings, _chéri_."

"Bye Dom, bye Louis," Victoire parroted dutifully, giving each of them a little half-hug as if she didn’t want her classmates to see her being sweet to her brother and sister. Grinning up at Bill, she went up on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck.  
"Bye, Papa," she whispered. "Love you."

"I love you too, Princess," he whispered back, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Make us proud, kay?"

"I'll try." Pulling back, she grabbed her book sack and slung it over her shoulder, hopping onto the train _just_ before the Hogwarts Express started to pull away from the platform.

He wasn't going to tear up. Bill would _not_ be one of those parents he'd often mocked, sentimental and morose as they watched their precious baby angels disappear around the bend. He would _not_. But that didn't stop him from following the train to the edge of the platform, waving at Victoire until she disappeared from sight.

"Ees someone going to be 'aving separation issues?" Fleur asked, quirking one blonde brow at him when he finally returned to his family.

Bill scoffed. "Course not. We've still got these two little monsters to take care of, don’t we?" he queried. Reaching down, he picked Louis up off the ground and swung him around, grinning as the little boy giggled and kicked his legs.

Settling his son on his shoulders, Bill held his hand out to Dominique. "Come on then, Weasleys. Let's go home."

*~*~*~*~*

 _  
**June 5, 2024**   
_

"Louis Charles Weasley, just because you 'ave finished with your schooling does _not_ mean you are too old for me to take my wand to your backside, _tu l'as?_ "

Bill snickered as he watched Fleur snap her fingers at their youngest, pointing to the patch of grass next to her. Their son, full of excitement on finishing Hogwarts, could barely contain himself. His grand tour was all set and he was ready to leave upon the morn… if his Maman let him, of course. If Louis didn't listen to her and join them for a family picture, Bill highly doubted any force on earth would allow him out of her sight for the summer.

Louis ambled over, his red hair brushing his shoulders as he walked. " _D'ac, Maman_ , I'm coming."

"You 'ad better 'urry. I want _un photo_ before Molly brings out ze cake."

The gangly boy wrapped one arm around Fleur's shoulders and squeezed her to him, pressed his lips against her cheek in a sloppy kiss and ignored her yelp of protest. "You love me, Maman."

"At ze moment, I 'ave _no_ idea why, _petite gitan_ ," she groused, wiping the excess saliva away from her cheek. "Bill, Teddy, Victoire, Dominique, _allons-y_."

"Best not argue with Maman when she's in a mood," Victoire said sagely, tugging her husband along behind her. "Come on, dear."

Behind them, Dominique was snickering. "Teddy's whipped, Teddy's whipped," she chanted in a sing-song voice, grin widening as her brother-in-law shot her a glare.

Bill rolled his eyes and poked his middle child in the side. "Are you twenty or twelve, Dom?"

"Oh please, like _you_ weren't playing pranks on Uncle Charlie well into your thirties."

 _It was probably best not to mention the Puking Pastile he'd slipped into his brother's butterbeer earlier in the evening. Charlie was _still_ in the loo, where he would stay until Bill decided to give him the reverse caplet._

Or until Molly noticed Charlie's disappearance and came after Bill's hide with _her_ wand. Not for the first time, he noticed the similarities between his mother and his wife. For as different as they were physically, they could both be downright scary when it came to mothering their brood.

"Of course not," he lied smoothly, tugging on the end of her hair. "Let's all get in a neat little row for your Maman."

The three children—four, really, counting Teddy—allowed Fleur to arrange them just so in front of the camera, enduring her admonishments of _"Stand up straight"_ and _"Louis, get your 'air out of your eyes."_

Behind the camera—formerly a Muggle one, lovingly tinkered and modified for the fun of it—Arthur clicked and snapped away. After a few snaps, he and Fleur stepped out to have a few photos of the children taken, Teddy joining them so there would be a few photos of just the three Weasleys.

It was hard to believe they were all grown up Bill mused as he wrapped one arm around his wife's waist. Victoire shouldn't be married; she was supposed to still be his cherubic blonde baby, toddling across his study and demanding he read to her. Dominique was too young to be in culinary school, and it seemed only yesterday that Louis had been _born_. Now he was finished with Hogwarts!

"We did an alright job of it, didn't we?" he murmured, pressing a kiss into Fleur's hair. "Raising the lot, I mean."

"Mmm, _oui_ ," Fleur said softly, tipping her face up to look at him. A smile tugged at her lips, and her blue eyes were alight with warmth. " _Je t'adore, chéri_."

Bill merely smiled and ducked his head. As he lowered his lips to hers, a shrill voice pierced the air, interrupting the once-tender moment between husband and wife.

 _"WILLIAM ARTHUR WEASLEY, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR BROTHER?!?!"_

*~*~*~*~*

 _  
_  
**October 25, 2025**   
_   
_

"What on earth could _possibly_ be taking so long?" Bill asked, clearly agitated as he paced back and forth in front of the plain brown door. They'd been at the hospital since nine o'clock that morning, after Teddy had frantically Flooed to inform them that Victoire's water had broken.

They were about to be grandparents.

And by Merlin's saggy left Y-nut, it was taking _forever_. Was something wrong? Was his little girl okay? What about the baby?

Fleur, for her part, merely snickered as she watched him pace. "Bill, _chéri_ , eet 'as only been six 'ours, and eet ees Victoire's first labor. We could be 'ere all night."

The look Bill gave her was one of abject horror. "What do you mean, _all night_?"

"I mean zat ze baby could take quite a while coming," she said, giving him a Gallic shrug. "Remember Louis' birth?"

"Yes…" he said slowly. "That didn't take this long, though."

His wife gave a delicate snort. " _Chéri_ , I was in labor for thirteen 'ours."

" _No._ It wasn't _that_ long!"

She quirked a brow at him. "Yes, eet was. But you were not ze one 'eaving and straining to push ze baby out of your body. I suspect eet was much easier for you zan it was for me."

"You about ripped by fingers off, I wouldn’t call _that_ easy," he muttered. It felt nice saying it aloud, but he wasn't daft enough to say it where she might be able to _hear_ him.

Her wandwork was still quick as it'd ever been.

The door creaked open, and Teddy, his hair its usual shade of flaming turquoise, slipped through. In his arms… was a tiny pink bundle.

"Would you like to meet your granddaughter?"

Bill started to reach out for her, but his arms were batted to the side as Fleur stepped in front of him, relieving Teddy of his precious burden. He would have been irritated if the sight of her cooing away to the infant in French wasn't so heartbreakingly familiar.

"Does she 'ave a name?" she asked, glancing up from the baby to look at their son-in-law.

"Isabelle," Teddy answered quietly. "Isabelle Nymphadora Lupin."

For a long moment, Fleur was quiet as she looked down at little Isabelle. Bill didn't need to see her face to know she was fighting back tears. After a while, she nodded.  
" _C'est un bon nom_ ," she said softly, brushing a kiss over Isabelle's tiny forehead.

His throat was suddenly full, and Bill had to take a deep breath and swallow before he could nod in agreement.

"A good name, indeed."

*~*~*~*~*

 _  
**December 22, 2027**   
_

It was a perfect night; cold, but the heating charms placed on the tent kept all the wedding-goers toasty warm. The sounds of the waves crashing onto the beach mingled perfectly with the band, and as Dominique and her new husband twirled around the dance floor, a soft breeze tugged at her red curls.

"I'm too young for this," Bill muttered.

" _Chèri_ , you said zat four years ago when Victoire was married. And I theenk you said it when Isabelle was born," a voice said behind him, and he didn't have to turn around to know that his wife was smiling.

He shrugged and turned to face her. "Well, it's still true. Dominique isn't old enough to be _married_."

"She ees twenty-three years old, Bill. I was barely twenty when we were married." Fleur lifted her shoulder in her familiar little half-shrug. "Eet 'appens. And she 'as been with 'im for nearly four years…eet was only a matter of time."

"Still doesn't mean I have to _like_ seeing my baby girl married. And at least Victoire had the good sense to stay nearby; Dom's moving to _France!_ "

Fleur laughed and slipped closer, her thin arms wrapping around his waist. " _Chèri_ , she 'as been in Paris for nearly two years. 'Er job ees there."

Bill sighed and let his chin rest on top of his wife's head. "I guess I always thought she'd come back," he murmured as one arm slid around her, tugging her even closer. "She doesn't need me anymore."

"She will always need you, you're 'er Papa." Tipping her head back to look at him, she reached up to cup his scarred cheek, one thumb tracing a particularly deep ragged mark. "She ees grown up, _oui_ , but you are 'er father, and she will always need you. Jean-Michel ees a good man, and 'e will take care of 'er, but 'e will never replace you."

"Promise?"

" _Je promis_ ," she murmured, " _mon homme loufoque_."

"Not nice to kick a man when he's already down, Fleur," he replied. Turning his face to the side, he reached up to cage her hand in against his skin, his lips pressing against her warm palm. "I love you."

" _Je t'adore, aussi_."

"Papa?"

Bill had been leaning in to kiss his wife, but stopped and pulled back when he heard his name. Even though it was not the first time he'd seen her that day, his breath still caught at the sight of his little Dominique in her wedding dress. She looked absolutely _stunning_.

"Hey there, angel," he said with a smile. "Where's Jean-Michel?"

She waved in the general direction her husband had gone. "With his Maman, I think. I wanted to see if I could steal you for another dance."

Tears pricked at his eyes, but he hurriedly blinked them away. Maybe Fleur was right after all, maybe Dom _wasn't_ replacing him. "Of course, Dom. If it's alright with your Maman, of course."

Fleur gave a dismissive wave. " _Bien sûr_. 'Ave fun."

"You're so benevolent." He pressed a kiss to her forehead and murmured, "I'll be back," before holding his hand out to his little girl. "May I have the honor of this dance, Madame?" He was delighted at her girlish giggle as she swept an elegant curtsey.

" _Bien sûr_ ," she answered, echoing her Maman. "It would be my honor, Papa."

He smiled and led her out to the dance floor, sweeping her into his arms. It was her night, her time to shine, but the honor?

That was all his.

*~*~*~*~*

 _  
**August 1, 2047**   
_

"Excuse me, _Excusez-moi_ , can I have everyone's attention?"

The witches and wizards clustered around the little tables quieted and turned their focus to the pretty witch standing at the head table. Her once long blonde hair was cut short in a more-sensible cut, and though her skin was no longer as flawless as it had once been, she was still a beauty.

Victoire Weasley-Lupin smiled at the gathering. "Thank you. My siblings have asked me to give the toast today, and though I'm not sure I deserve the honor, I'll do my best." She raised a glass of champagne to her lips and took a small sip, whetting her lips before, with a deep breath and a little swallow, she continued.

"This year—2047—is a very important year in our society. Fifty years ago, the last great war of the wizarding world began in earnest. History remembers that time as a dark one, full of horrible acts of violence—which it was. It was on this day fifty years ago that Rufus Scrimegoeur, the Minister of Magic, was murdered by Death Eaters, and the Ministry was taken over by the forces of Lord Voldemort."

No one in the room needed to be reminded. They had either lived through it, or they had read about it in their history books, heard tale from their parents. But Victoire had her audience in rapt silence as she continued to speak.

"But that wasn't the only important event to take place on August first. Because on August 1st, 1997, in the little village of Ottery St. Catchpole, William Arthur Weasley and Fleur Isabelle Delacour were married."

Her blue gaze glanced down the table to where her parents sat, hand in hand. She could see tears falling down her Maman's face, and her Papa's chin was held high, his eyes bright with emotion.

"Many of you were at the wedding. Obviously, I was not, but I've heard my parents—and my aunts and uncles—talk about that day. How the Death Eaters arrived during the reception, and how Papa and Maman helped fight them off. I can't imagine what that was like, but thanks to the actions of my parents and their friends and family, I've never had to live in a world of darkness, fear, and hatred. I've never had to wonder if my Muggleborn friends would be carted off to Azkaban—or worse—because of their so-called "blood purity."

Victoire paused and glanced down at her husband. Her lips twitched in a reassuring smile, which grew when he reached up to lace his fingers through hers and squeezed lightly. Looking back up at the assembled room, she began again.

"Over the course of my life, my parents have taught me time and time again the value of love. But they never had to say a word; all we had to do was watch them. Because in all my years, I have never seen a couple more in-love and committed to one another than my Maman and Papa. There are so many things I could say, but then we would be here all night, so I'll just say this:"

Reaching down for her champagne glass, she held it aloft. "Maman, Papa, you have endured so much over the course of your marriage, strains that would break a lesser couple. And through it all, you have taught Dominique, Louis, and myself how to be the best version of ourselves we can be. Thank you for showing me what a true relationship looks like, and I can only hope that in twenty-six years—when this is Teddy and my's fiftieth anniversary—that Isabelle will be able to stand up and say that I did half as good of a job as you two did."

With a smile, she said, "So please join me in wishing a very happy fiftieth wedding anniversary to Bill and Fleur Weasley. May the next fifty years be just as blessed and happy as the first."

*~*~*~*~*

 _  
**January 2, 2066**   
_

The small cemetery in Ottery St. Catchpole was nearly full to capacity with mourners, nearly a hundred black-clad attendees crowded in the churchyard. The window howled, shaking the bare branches of the nearby weeping willow tree. It was cold, and there was a light dusting of snow over the grounds from the night before.

Snow didn't feel appropriate, Bill mused. It should have been raining; thunder and lightning should be darkening the sky. Snow was too happy, too _light_.

He had always loved snow. Louis. Even as an adult, he had taking his children out to play in the powdery white stuff, patiently teaching them to make snow forts and snow men, engaging in mock battles with the numerous Weasley cousins.

Perhaps it _was_ fitting, then.

The Ministry official was speaking, but Bill wasn't listening. His gaze was locked on the gleaming mahogany casket in front of him, the top of which was covered with a spray of crimson roses. Fleur had painstakingly designed it, hand-plucking each individual bloom from the bushes in their little solarium. He didn't know how she'd done it; he was having a hard enough time processing everything that had happened. Once again, his wife's mental strength floored him.

Because no parent should ever have to bury their child.

Scronfungulus. That had been the cause of it. Louis had come down with it on Boxing Day, and less than a week later, he was gone. That was it. No warning, no time to prepare, _nothing_. One minute, he'd been there with them, and the next…

Fleur's hand was cool in his, the gnarled and knotted fingers covered with a kidskin glove. Next to her was Amy, Louis' wife—his _widow_ \-- and their four children. Victoire and Dominique, too, with their respective families, along with the rest of the Weasley brood. All there to say goodbye to their husband, brother, father, grandfather, _son_.

It didn't matter that Louis had been sixty when he'd died. It was still _too soon_. For a wizard, he'd barely reached middle age.

The sounds of sniffles reached his ears as his focus was brought back to the present, and the family around him began to rise from their seats. One hand grasping his cane, he wobbled to his feet, then leaned over to help Fleur. Neither of them were as agile as they'd once been, and her body never worked properly in the cold weather.

She wasn't crying. There was a deep sadness in her blue eyes, but tears didn't track down her cheeks. In her old age, Fleur had started internalizing her emotions. Where she once would have sobbed and clung to him, now she quietly endured whatever pain—be it emotional or physical—came her way.

But her hands gave her away. They were trembling.

His hand tightened around hers, lending her support. After sixty-nine years of marriage, they didn't really need words. And that was alright with him.

He wasn’t sure he had them, anyway.

*~*~*~*~*

 _  
**October 15, 2077**   
_

In the time that had passed since Fleur's episode—a stroke, the Healer had said, something that affected her brain and movements—Bill had taken to bringing his wife her morning tea while she stayed in bed. Her motor skills weren't what they had used to be, and he didn't want her to scald herself with the kettle.

They'd moved their bedroom down to the ground floor of Shell Cottage to make it easier for the both of them. At their age, climbing the stairs multiple times a day was simply out of the question. Isabelle or Andi would stop by to see them every day, their own children in tow. Bill loved seeing his granddaughters and his great-grandchildren—their visits were often the highlight of his day.

Fleur loved it, too. She often had trouble speaking, and her hands would tremble as she reached out for a hand to hold, but he could see the delight in her blue eyes.

His hands were shaking as he waved his wand, preparing her tea and morning croissant. One-hundred and seven years old, _"And still young at heart,"_ he often joked, just to make his wife smile. His Fleur, the darling girl he'd married eighty years ago, was still there, beneath the frail skin and confused mind.

The Healers only thought he missed their low conversations with Victoire and Dominique. He could see the way they looked at Fleur, the way they shook their heads and whispered with his children in the corridor. He didn't want to believe it, _couldn't_ believe it, but with each passing day, he was forced to gradually accept the truth.

She was running out of time.

The teacup rattled against the saucer as he set the cup down, another wave of his wand letting it float in front of him. His feet shuffled slowly, and one hand gripped his cane tightly as he began the long—or seemingly so—trek back to their bedroom. Once, he'd traversed this path in a matter of seconds; now, it took more than five minutes to walk from the kitchen to their room.

He knocked lightly on the door, in case she'd dozed back off. "Fleur? I've brought your tea, love."

Silence.

Bill's brow furrowed as he moved further into the room. "Sweetheart?"

Nothing.

As he moved closer to the bed, he could see his wife's hands folded neatly over her chest, just as they'd been when he'd left her a few moments earlier. Her face was peaceful, the age lines faint, and her lips held a hint of a smile.

But she wasn't moving.

He didn't even hear the cup and saucer fall to the floor and shatter, sending hot liquid and china spattering over the bedskirt. His already-shaky hands were trembling _so hard_ , and it was an act of God that he didn't lose his cane and fall over.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he slowly leaned over and pressed his ear to her chest. He listened intently, praying that his feeble ears were failing, and that he just couldn't _hear_ her heart beat. But there was nothing to hear. Her chest was no longer rising and falling with her breathing, and her heart had stopped beating.

Fleur was gone.

*~*~*~*~*

 **  
_October 15, 2078_   
**

Twin tear tracks ran down both wrinkled cheeks as Bill's mind slowly came back to the present. She'd been gone one year to the day, and he could still smell her perfume in their bedroom. Her clothes still hung in the closet, her bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door. He hadn't let the grandchildren pack up her things; instead, they remained where she'd left them save for a few choice items.

Fleur's wedding band went to Victoire, her fiftieth anniversary earrings to Dominqiue. Her wand had been gifted to Isabelle's youngest daughter, and her prize dueling saber to Anaïs.

The rest could be dealt with when he'd joined his wife.

Bill let out a shuddering breath and glanced up at the sky. It was a beautiful cerulean, a rare sight in England.

"Lord, you gave me a rare woman," he whispered to no one, "and God! I love her well."  
The breeze picked up, tugging at his blanket. He imagined it was Fleur's way of reassuring him. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her voice.

 _"Chèri, please do not cry. Eet will upset Anaïs eef she sees you crying over me."_

She was right, of course. Fleur was always right.

"Granddad?"

He glanced up to see Anaïs at his shoulder, her red hair plaited in a short braid. Worry was clearly written on her freckled face, and he managed a weak smile—just to reassure her.

She glanced down at the flowers in his lap. "Would you like me to put those down for you?" His throat felt too full to answer her, so he merely nodded.

Leaning down, the tall girl pressed a kiss to his forehead and picked the bouquet up out of his lap. Moving around his chair, she knelt down and laid the roses reverently in front of the marble marker. She stayed there, crouched in front of Fleur's final resting place for a long moment before she stood again.

" _Au revoir, Grandmère_. We miss you."

Her task finished, she reached down to squeeze his hand. "Are you ready to go home?"  
Bill nodded. "Yes," he managed to whisper, giving her hand a squeeze in return. "Thank you, sweetheart."

Anaïs gave him a sweet smile and moved to grasp the handles on the back of his chair. "We'll come back next week, Grandmère. _Je promis_."

"I promise," he echoed. As they started to wheel away, he struggled to turn and look over his shoulder at his wife's grave. Just as he had with his children on each trip to King's Cross, he kept his gaze on Fleur until he could no longer see her.

What he had shared with her couldn't be defined. It was love, but it was also something much, much deeper than that. Anger, passion, lust, devotion, love, hope, fear; _everything_ , rolled together and parceled out over eighty years of marriage. No man on earth could count himself as lucky as Bill Weasley. He had had a loving wife, wonderful children, and enough grandchildren and great-grandchildren to field half a Quidditch League. And all throughout it, he had shared each heartache, pleasure, and pain with Fleur Isabelle Delacour-Weasley.

He truly was a blessed man.


End file.
